“You young folk, who as yet know little of the terrors of the world, reproach me with cold looks and colder words,” he said; “but I wonder, should you ever come to such a pass as mine, whether you will find the heart to meet it half as bravely? Why do you think that I have told you this secret, that I might have kept from you as I kept it from your mother, Margaret? I say because it is a part of my penance for the sin which I have sinned. Aye, I know well that my God is a jealous God, and that this sin will fall back on my head, and that I shall pay its price to the last groat, though when and how the blow will strike me I know not. Go you, Peter, or you, Margaret, and denounce me if you will. Your priests will speak well of you for the deed, and open to you a shorter road to Heaven, and I shall not blame you, nor lessen your wealth by a single golden noble.” “Do not speak so madly, Sir,” said Peter; “these matters are between you and God. What have we to do with them, and who made us judges over you? We only pray that your fears may come to nothing, and that you may reach your grave in peace and honour.” “I thank you for your generous words, which are such as befit your nature,” said Castell gently; “but what says Margaret?” “I, father?” she answered, wildly. “Oh! I have nothing to say. He is right. It is between you and God; but it is hard that I must lose my love so soon.” Peter looked up, and Castell answered: “Lose him! Why, what did he swear but now?” “I care not what he swore; but how can I ask him, who is of noble, Christian birth, to marry the daughter of a Jew who all his life has passed himself off as a worshipper of that Jesus Whom he denies?” Now Peter held up his hand. “Have done with such talk,” he said. “Were your father Judas himself, what is that to you and me? You are mine and I am yours till death part us, nor shall the faith of another man stand between us for an hour. Sir, we thank you for your confidence, and of this be sure, that although it makes us sorrowful, we do not love or honour you the less because now we know the truth.” Margaret rose from her chair, looked a while at her father, then with a sob threw herself suddenly upon his breast. “Forgive me if I spoke bitterly,” she said, “who, not knowing that I was half a Jewess, have been taught to hate their race. What is it to me of what faith you are, who think of you only as my dearest father?” “Why weep then?” asked Castell, stroking her hair tenderly. “Because you are in danger, or so you say, and if anything happened to you—oh! what shall I do then?” “Accept it as the will of God, and bear the blow bravely, as I hope to do, should it fall,” he answered, and, kissing her, left the chapel. “It seems that joy and trouble go hand in hand,” said Margaret, looking up presently.